


Mother Immortal

by Nina



Category: Elfquest
Genre: Astral Projection, Elfquest - Freeform, Mortality, Other, Timmain - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 22:45:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7988899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nina/pseuds/Nina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war for the Palace, Timmain regains her memories inside Petalwing's cocoon.</p><p>*Spoilers for Final Quest!*</p><p>If you've been following Elfquest's most recent installments, you know about the recent development regarding Cutter and Timmain. I found that revelation very odd, and couldn't quite wrap my brain (or suspension of disbelief!) around it. This story is my attempt to make sense of the whole thing from Timmain's persective. She's so alien- I imagine her experience of things must be quite strange.</p><p>Hope you enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mother Immortal

Timmain drifts in the deep, timeless waters of her mind. Encased in her silken cocoon, she hears nothing, feels nothing. Only the growing awareness of her ancient self. She had been a wolf so long, swimming in the now. 

Now, waves of memory wash over her. The pounding of four paws in the dirt, feet crashing through fallen leaves… now breaking through crusted snow. The heavy, panting sound of her mate beside her. His thick scent wafts over her, bringing comfort. Together, they leap… and she lands alone, splashing into time. Her feet are pacing the stars. Four, running feet fade into the forward motion of flight. She races, her mind directing her, through the glittering cosmos. And she is not alone. Eight minds unite. She touches them, and they greet her with affection. The pangs of separation flare and fade. Ages have past since she has known them, since they have been one. 

She has always known them. They are always one. 

She is flying now, through the memories. Only a small portion of them are her own, and she concludes with them quickly. United with the others, her mind moves outward, into the scroll. Intricately shaped, carved from star stuff, the symbols unveil themselves. It takes only slight effort before she regains her ease with them. Slowly at first, then more rapidly, the patterns of light shift and blaze and reveal the stories. In the beginning, the old world died. In the beginning, they built the ships. In the beginning, they gathered the last, helpless creatures, and escaped. 

So many eons of travel. Yes, the others sigh. Yes, we remember. She allows them to guide her. She is not the time keeper. She is not the navigator. She is the one who remembers. It is very pleasant, they whisper, without the flesh. But remember. Remember our many forms! And she does. 

Yet she is not formless. Her body, still and silent, retains it’s shape. It breathes. It’s heart still beats. It tethers her. And other voices are calling, tugging her back. Ah, yes. Her children.

The one called Rayek has many questions. She tastes his urgency. He is driven. Rash and reckless, he wants to know all things, now. She feels compassion for his youth. There is time, she tells him, infinite time— and “now” is an eternal moment for their kind. She does her best to teach him. Up, down, here and there… they mean so little. He misunderstands. He craves power— believes, even, that he is powerful. But his powers are small compared to the unfettered talents of her long-dead people. 

Her children. She had a child once. His face shimmers into being. His yellow eyes are haunted. Thick fur sprouts from his cheeks, brown and tinged with the colors of flame. It blankets him. He will never shiver in the night. He will never tremble, weak from hunger. He is strong. She hears him howling in the storm. She sees him sink his teeth into warm, red meat. 

He feels the pull of the sky, but does not understand it. He feels the pull of the world, and knows he is one with it. He will protect the fragile shapes that house her people. Timmain is proud. She loves this fierce and wild son. 

“Mother,” he calls to her. “Mother, help me.” The lesson rises before her, sharp and painful. Brutal, like time. He was so beautiful. His life, so brief. She knew he would bring balance to her people. But he could not walk two worlds forever. The edge was sharp; he had to choose. And so she released him. 

She allows herself to rest in this moment. This moment when he rises, stretches. The night sky glitters overhead, but he does not look up. He smells, instead, the sweet grass rustling at his feet. In the distance, wolves howl. He looks toward the sound. He still jogs gracefully on two legs. But he is an animal now. No questions remain. 

The moment fades. She feels for his spirit. It is not here. 

Oh, my son. Was it worth it, to give you a life that could not last?

*High One?* Someone is calling her. Not Rayek. Another. *…Timmain?* This mind is new… yet strangely familiar. Young and searching, it has the taste of the wolf about it. One of her son’s many descendants. 

She responds with affection. *What would you ask, my child?*

The mind touches hers again. It seems surprised, but less hesitant now. *High One, my dream has always been to touch the stars.* With this, she sees the youth’s understanding of his universe— a wheel of sky spinning overhead, and all around, green forest. His optimism reminds her of Adya. She feels herself warm to this young being, whose life is tethered to a world so small. 

A memory escapes him: a dark cave, blades clashing and hot blood. *We fought for the palace!* he continues. *I wanted to stay here. I wanted to learn everything I could. But…* Suddenly, jarringly, Timmain becomes aware of her body. Cradled in her cocoon, her eyes are closed, and the preserver threads press close against her face. The sensation passes, and she begins to sense another form— two legged, hands grasping rough fur. A wolf’s shape pads beneath it, and this body, male, sits the creature solidly. He moves easily with the sway of the animal’s hips. Through his nose, she breaths in the autumn: fallen leaves and decaying wood. Apprehension grips her. 

The mind before her sends his name. *Cutter.* 

With that, a floodgate opens. Timmain pours out of herself, rushing to connect with the part of her that she abandoned so long ago. Cutter…no, Tam… a small snippet of Timmain. 

It had happened quickly. And it had taken up so little space in the long span of her existence, falling somewhere in the grey haze between becoming a wolf and returning to her bipedal self. She was near death, her spirit drifting (for what is death but the untethering of soul from body?), when a pull seized her. Recognition; not her own, but another whose essence felt so much like kin that she did not even think to resist. She flew toward it. Hovering above two forms entwined in the grass, she sensed they were her son’s children. Their hearts beat in stuttered syncopation with the pulse of the world. Wolfblood pounded in their veins. The dark haired male felt like her son. He walked the edge between elf and wolf. The female kept him balanced. 

Circling them, watching their union, Timmain’s spirit swelled with joy. She might be dying, but her children had survived! And, at last, they had found the harmony between stars and wolf. 

A small spirit blazed to life between them. It was so bright, so pure, it drew Timmain in. But as she approached, she could see it flicker like the flame of a candle. This little spirit saw her too. It moved toward her, not into the body it should have inhabited. No! Timmain pushed back. But the tiny light seemed to laugh. It met her gentle force with it’s own, and dove into her. She could feel it rushing through her, using her as a conduit to a greater light and a greater pull— the spirit pool of the palace ship. And then… it was gone.

Gone— but the spark of creation before her had not yet died. Using the momentum of her push, Timmain projected a part of herself into the new life forming. She would save it. She fused with it, gave it her strength. The small cell that would become a body attached to it’s mother’s uterine wall. It divided and divided, until the blood flowed into it, pulsing with the rhythm of the mortal world. At long last, Timmain felt the pleasure of the body again, growing and feeding, moving and dreaming. Strong and safe in it’s dark, warm cocoon. 

Eventually, she remembered her own body. She decided that she would preserve it as well. Carefully, she withdrew from the tiny form she inhabited, leaving a part of herself inside, to help it grow. This little piece of her spirit would take root, like the clipping of a plant. It would enmesh with this form, and they would grow together, spreading and blooming independent of her care. She said farewell and withdrew to the wasted, immortal form she had left behind. 

All this, she had forgotten. Until now. 

*I miss my chief, Cutter.* Startled, Timmain returns her attention to the one speaking. Yes, she knows this one. For he is a friend of her wild, mortal self. Tam, she thinks, not Cutter. And he thinks it too, for they have recognized.

She examines him closer. Fahr. Oh yes, she knows him. For everything Tam remembers, she also remembers, now. In the darkness, she smiles.

*Go to him,* she urges. *He is waiting for you. Mend whatever divisions exist. And do not worry. The ‘palace’ will still be here, when you are ready. I will be here too.*

Fahr sends his assent. His gratitude brushes against her and she savors the touch. He leaves. This is well. Disentangling from the past, Timmain prepares to re-enter the world. The male body that is Tam cannot bear children. He can only seed them. And he has, in a second recognition. But that is his business. For though he sprang from her, he is also his own being. 

She, however, can bear life. And she will. She must consult the scrolls. When the time is right… in brief, brief time… she will rejoin her children. She will be a mother again.


End file.
